


Sea of Bad Days

by BeatrixNelson



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-04-23 07:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19146484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatrixNelson/pseuds/BeatrixNelson
Summary: A sane girl in an asylum, an innocent teen surrounded by guilty criminals. Sanity is so... corruptible. Always remember, we all could go insane with just one bad day.**I've already posted this story on Quotev, but I'm going to edit some stuff and add some smut, maybe. It's mostly to get used to how Ao3 works.





	1. 24 Hours

The hallway was dimly lit by a row of warm lights hanging from the high ceiling. Sure, the building was huge, but that did not mean it was luxurious. The floors had a strange grime to it, the walls seemed like they hadn't been scrubbed in years. Guards stood at every doorway, staring silently at the two people walking past. One of them was a tall, buff man. Another guard. The other person was an 18 year old girl with long dark brown hair that waved down her back. She observed every inch of the place with big frightened green eyes, chewing her full bottom lip anxiously. 

        She had already been forced to change into the mandatory black-and-white striped uniform, a dress, with a red 'A-166' written on the front. The intimidating guard next to her held her right arm tightly so she'd keep up with his fast pace. The pair arrived at the last gated door, where two other guards stood.

        "Arkham just keeps growing its population, huh? If it were up to me, I'd burn this place down with all the inmates inside- getting rid of these sickos would only help Gotham," the shorter one sneered as he swiped his card in the slot, making a small light flash green on the machine on the wall. The door unlocked with a click and the girl was pushed through the doorway.

        "You keep saying this everyday, Dave. I'm only waiting for the day you actually do it," the guard holding the inmate laughed wholeheartedly, not caring that one of these 'sickos' was standing right there with them and hearing it all. 

        "What if some of the people here are innocent?" she asked in a small voice, speaking up for the first time since she had passed the Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane's gates in a police car. 

        "No one here is innocent, girly. You should know that- you killed your mommy." The guard continued pushing her through another, narrower, corridor, waving goodbye to his coworkers.

        She clenched her mouth shut, hurt by the salt being metaphorically rubbed into the open wound that was her mother's death. There was no point in arguing with the man, he clearly had his mind made up, and so did the police department that had chosen to send her to Arkham. 

        They walked through the A-wing briskly. Doors lined the hall, and strange voices and sounds could be faintly heard through the thick metal. 

        A small man from one of the cells to their right ran into his door, squishing his face against the barred window.

        "Hi, I'm Greg," he beamed, eyes wide and bloodshot. The girl stared at him apprehensively. "What's your name?"

        "I'm, uh, I'm Beatrix," she responded uncertainly, surprised the guard had stopped to watch the interaction with amusement. Clearly, he wanted her to get as scared as possible before she was confined to her cell for the night. 

        "Oh, cool name!" this Greg exclaimed. He then shook his head violently from side to side and after a few seconds, he stopped. He blinked a few times in confusion and his gummy grin appeared once again. "Hi, I'm Greg! What's your name?"

        Beatrix simply stayed frozen, dumb-founded by what had just happened. She sighed, "Right. Insane Asylum."

        "That's nothing compared to what you'll be meeting tomorrow, inmate," the guard chuckled darkly to himself before unlocking the cell two doors down from Greg's. "Breakfast is at 9. You're not awake by then, you don't eat."

        The guard pushed her into the room and closed the door behind her, smiling through the small opening. She simply stared at him in confusion as he left. She wasn't aware the guards were supposed to be as terrifying as the patients of the infamous mental hospital. Rubbing her face with frustration, she glanced around the small square of a room, trying to get accustomed to her new living quarters for what could be up to ten years, depending on her 'mental progress'. 

        There was a small bed with a rusty metal frame in a corner. A thin white cover was spread on top of it with a few dark stains across the fabric. There was also a two-inch thick pillow. A small bedside table was placed next to the bed with many scratches etched into the wood. There was also an old desk with a wooden chair, and a very dirty toilet. 

        Too numb to do anything else, Beatrix trudged over to the bed and laid atop it, realizing just how hard and uncomfortable it was when she let her weight settle into the mattress. She stared at the grimy ceiling, so overwhelmed by the last 24 hours she thought she was drowning. 

 

 

APPROXIMATELY 24 HOURS EARLIER

 

        Beatrix was slipping on her black sneakers near the front door when her mother walked into the living room curiously. They both looked quite similar. They had the same thin, yet muscly build, pale skin, and dark hair. The only obvious differences were the eyes, and lips. Her mother had bright blue eyes instead of green ones, and her lips were a lot thinner. Beatrix had never known her father, and never cared to know who he was, but she naturally assumed he had green eyes and thick lips. 

        "Bee, where are you going? It's already half past 6," Carly Nelson crossed her arms, not angrily. More with concern, than anything else. She had always been a calm and understanding person, and it wasn't in her nature to get angry. 

        "I told you this morning, mom, I work at 7," the girl sighed, shaking her head at how her mother could have forgotten already. She clearly remembered telling her she would be working the evening shift at the restaurant while they had been eating waffles.

        "I really don't like you working these night shifts, Beatrix. Can you please tell your manager you won't do them anymore? Gotham is dangerous, especially at night- if anything happened to you, I-"

        "Mom. I'm going to be fine. The diner's not far away, and there's an emergency button to call the police incognito if anything were to happen. But, it's never been used in the twenty years the restaurant's been open. We don't live in the worst neighborhood. You need to stop worrying so much," Beatrix explained calmly for what seemed like the hundredth time. 

        "I know... but why do you work this much? Ever since you graduated high school, you're either working at that diner or at that clothing store- I never see you anymore." Carly gently grabbed her daughter's shoulders, trying to understand what she was going through.

        "I need to make money, so I need to work a lot- we've already had this discussion, and I'm going to be late for work if-"

        "You don't need to make so much money, I make enough for both of us to eat, and live here, and we have all the necessities." The older woman waved her hand around at the apartment. She was right, of course. They never missed anything, the flat was cozy enough; they had TV, and a computer, and a car. "We're doing fine here."

        "Fine's okay, and all. But it's not enough for me. I want to do great. I want to be able to eventually get out of this town, maybe even go to college, though I don't know to do what exactly, yet... I just feel like I have so much more to offer. And for that I need to work hard, and make money." Beatrix gently pushed her mother's hands off her shoulders so she could put on her black raincoat. 

        "Can't you just be content?" her mother pleaded, a very sad look in her eyes. This was exactly the type of argument she used to have with Beatrix's father when she was pregnant, and the reason he had left before their daughter was even born. 

        "No," she sighed, guilty from seeing the sorrow behind her mom's blue eyes. "I'll be back before 1. Love you."

        Beatrix closed the door behind her and hurried out the building into the rain-covered streets. She walked as quickly as she could without running, afraid she'd be late. Her manager greeted her as she entered the diner, and as soon as she had taken off her coat, she got to work. She was a waitress and also worked the kitchen after 8 when all the other staff left.

        There weren't many customers at a time like this, especially since it was raining, so she wasn't banking on being too busy. She focused her attention on giving the best service she could with the saddened mood her mother had caused her to feel. Good service equaled more tip, and she endured the customers' complaints and idiocies for the money they'd eventually provide her. Sure, perhaps she'd reach her goal faster if she worked at a bar, or a club, somewhere she could use her sexuality to make money- but she felt too uncomfortable doing that. It just wasn't for her. 

        After an uneventful night, she cleaned everything up, counted the cash register, and locked the place up, feeling a certain sense of responsibility for the diner. It wasn't raining anymore so she walked back to her apartment at a leisurely pace, simply enjoying the cool night air on her skin, and how everything seemed shiny from the water that had fallen earlier. 

        She quietly unlocked the door, careful not to make any abrupt sounds as her mother usually slept at this hour. However, as she closed the door behind her, she was surprised to see all the lights were still on. On the opposite side of the room, the TV was turned on, and she could see the back of her mother's head poking above the sofa's cushions. 

        "Mom? Since when are you awake this late? I mean, I know you worry about me, but you should still sleep," Beatrix giggled to herself, finding her mother's concern endearing. She did understand her point of view, she just couldn't abide by it herself. 

        Beatrix frowned at the silence that followed; the only sound came from the TV's low volume. Her mother didn't even turn around to look at her... she couldn't still be cross, could she? Her mother never stayed angry, or even frustrated, more than an hour. 

        "Mom, seriously? The silent treatment? That's a first. I didn't know me trying to make something out of myself could piss you off so much," she taunted, annoyed at the lack of response. Sighing, she set her bag and coat on the floor beside her and took off her shoes as well, giving her mother time to answer. But she didn't.

        "Mom?" she exclaimed, getting mad now. She stalked around the couch to face her silent mother. However, what she saw... she would never forget. Her mother's light blue orbs stared at the TV blankly. Her skin was paler than usual. But the truly shocking thing was the bullet lodged into her forehead. Bright crimson blood had spilled out from the wound, creating red drips down her face that resembled tears. Beatrix heard a blood-curdling scream, and it took her a few moments to realize it had come from her own mouth. 

        She reached for the cellphone in her back-pocket and composed 911. As the operator asked her a bunch of questions, she felt tears roll down her cheeks in an unending stream. After giving her address to the emergency dispatcher, she slowly sat on the floor near her mother's feet. She couldn't bear to look at her blank expression anymore, but she also couldn't bear being far from what had been the only person she had ever loved. She stared at the TV, not actually seeing what was going on on the screen. She leaned against the sofa, right next to her mother's legs, afraid that if she actually touched them, they'd be freezing cold and only scar her more. 

        After what seemed like an eternity, the door barged open and a bunch of people came in. Police officers, and paramedics, and forensics. Everything at that moment was a blur for Beatrix. She felt herself escorted out of her own apartment, out into the building's hall. She saw detectives hurrying about, discussing matters that she couldn't hear. A bunch of people asked her what happened, and if she was okay. Had she seen the intruder? Did she know who it could be? She answered every question with simple nods or slight shakes of the head, not trusting her voice.

        She was brought to the police station, hearing officers talk about the case a little more clearly without all the sirens blaring, or maybe that had just been her ears ringing. They discussed how most of the valuables seemed to have been stolen. How the murder weapon hadn't been found yet. How one of the windows had been smashed. How there were no fingerprints except the victim's and Beatrix's. 

        Hours later, or so it seemed, she wasn't quite sure, she was led into an interrogation room. A man in his thirties with yellow blond hair and thick glasses sat at the table, observing her keenly. 

        "Sit, Miss Nelson. We have much to discuss," he encouraged her, pointing at the metal chair across from him. She nodded numbly and let herself down on the uncomfortably cold chair. 

        "So, I obviously have quite a few questions about your mother, Carly Nelson's, death. Is it okay with you if we start now?" he asked her pleasantly, folding his hands together atop the table. Next to his clenched hands was some paper in a folder, and a blue pen. 

        Beatrix nodded, feeling like she should still be crying, but all out of tears for the moment. Her head ached from the bawling.

        "Alright, so you are indeed Beatrix Nelson, 18 years old?" he raised an eyebrow.  
She nodded. 

        "You live alone with your mother?"

        Nod. 

        "When was the last time you saw her... alive?" 

        "Before going to work," she croaked, slightly surprised at how bad her voice sounded, as she hadn't spoken in a while. 

        "What time would that be?"

        "6:30. Maybe 6:45. I was scared of being late, she was talking a lot," she whispered.

        "Talking about what?"

        "About how I shouldn't work this late at night, it's dangerous," she coughed out a dry sob, hit by the twisted irony.

        "So you had an argument?"

        "Not exactly. She simply expressed her concern for me. And I assured her I was fine."

        "Right. And at what time did you see your mother's corpse?" he asked, his harsh wording making her flinch in the chair. 

        "I got home it was 12:50, approximately."

        "Were you aware of anyone who would want to hurt your mother?"

        "No- she's the nicest person I know. I don't see why anyone would purposefully go about ki... hurting her," she reworded her sentence.

        "Is she?" the blond man raised a nearly invisible eyebrow as he took off his glasses and folded them neatly next to the pen and paper on the table before looking back at her with a steely gaze. "If she's so nice, then why did you kill your mother?"

        "I did not. What are you...?" Beatrix frowned, taken aback by the strange turn of the interrogation. 

        "You are the only suspect. Your fingerprints are all over the victim's body. And you have no valid alibi," the detective stated coldly. 

        "What?? No- that makes no sense- of course my fingerprints are everywhere, I live there! And I was working! How is that not an alibi??" she exclaimed, awestruck by the man's nerve and stupidity. The fiery anger that rose inside her was a pleasant change to the hollow numbness of the last hours.

        "The time of death seems to be between 8 and 10. Can anyone vouch for you that you were at the diner during that time?"

        "Yes- I served some customers, they know-"

        "What are their names? So we can interrogate them."

        "I- well, I obviously don't know," she stuttered out, irked by the smugness radiating from him. 

        "And, conveniently enough, there are no security cameras at the diner you work at."

        "You're, what?- It's innocent until proven guilty. You can't prove anything."

        "I can. This police department has many smart blokes working here, and they will ensure that a cold-blooded murderer like you gets locked up quickly. Case closed." 

        "You're setting me up," she realized, anger boiling beneath the shock-stricken surface. "Why? For a promotion? For a case to be solved quickly and neatly? Why?"

        "You're talking nonsense. Now, of course, we will provide for you a lawyer, and if you do not cause too much trouble, I'm sure he'll be able to get you a short enough sentence at the local women's prison. You are a minor, and this is your first offense. With good behavior you could be out in seven years," the police officer smiled, trying to show that he was actually being the nice guy in this situation.

        "I'm not going to prison for something I didn't do," she suddenly snarled, making the detective tilt his head slightly, annoyed. 

        "You think this is up to you? No. Justice always wins, especially against people who kill their own mothers. What did she ever do to you to deserve that cold fate?" 

        With all this taunting, all Beatrix could see was red. She had been sitting pretty still on the chair, hands flat against the metal table since she had been earnestly defending herself. Something in her mind snapped, however, as the blond policeman watched her with his overly-satisfied expression. Before he could even move a finger, Beatrix had reached across the big metal table, nearly kneeling on top of it, to grab the blue ink pen. Without a second thought, she jammed the small sharp writing tool into one of his cold grey eyes. Blood pooled out of the socket as he screamed and scrambled away from her. 

        Officers rushed in, quickly grabbing the girl and pinning her against a wall far from the injured man. Paramedics rushed in, examining the damage and trying to figure out what the best course of action would be. 

        "Come on, officer Weller, we have to get you to the hospital, now," a busty woman urged him towards the door. Before he left the interrogation room, he turned to glare at the smirking girl with one teary undamaged eye. The pen was still lodged into his other one.

        "This is exactly the kind of trouble I was trying to avoid. This young woman is clearly a danger to society and should be locked up immediately. Send her to Arkham while she awaits proper trial so she may receive appropriate treatment," he spat as he was dragged out of the room by impatient paramedics. The other officers were now watching her warily, afraid she might snap at one them, too. 

        It was only when she was handcuffed in the back of a police car that she realized exactly what was happening to her. Her mother was dead. She was accused of her murder. She had stabbed a man's eye with a pen- who does that, even in extreme anger? And, most importantly, she was being sent to Arkham right then. No trial. No mental health examination. Straight to the cuckoo-bin. Beatrix knew Gotham was heavily corrupted and did not go by the books, but this, this was a whole new level of wrong. 

        

 

        At 9 o'clock sharp, the door to Beatrix's cell busted open, startling her. She had been drowsily staring at the wall, having only woken up a few minutes prior by her right-side neighbor's yells. A different guard than the one from the night before stood in the doorway, staring down at her impatiently.

        "Well, what are you waiting for? Get up. We don't have all day," he urged her, so she got up and put on the black little sneakers with no shoe-laces that had been provided for her. She walked towards the man and he motioned for her to join the line of inmates standing groggily in the middle of the hall. A bunch of other guards were getting everyone out of their rooms, and they all marched together towards the cafeteria. It felt like a weird summer camp. 

        As they walked, Beatrix's brain slowly woke up and her heart clenched with nervousness. How would the food be? How would the inmates be? Would they all ignore her, too drugged to care? Or would they flock to the newbie? She smoothed her hair and dress down, suddenly annoyed that girls had to wear dresses as the uniform. She didn't enjoy having her legs bare in such a hostile environment. 

        They finally reached the cafeteria- it was a big open room with dozens and dozens of tables surrounded by a thick iron gate. She quickly learned they had to line up at the food-serving counter, and when their food was given to them they could proceed inside the gates and sit where they pleased. While they ate, the gate would be closed until breakfast time was over. 

        She sat down at an empty table in a far corner of the room, hoping no one would sit with her. Thus far, things didn't seem so bad, that is, until she saw the food on her navy blue tray. Her breakfast consisted of grey oatmeal with a glue-like consistency, a browned apple, a slab of unappetizing ham, and a store-bought cheap vanilla pudding. She was supposed to eat all this with a spork: a spoon with small dents at the tip, like a fork. At least she had a paper cup filled with water. As she took a sip, she stopped herself from grimacing at the weird taste of dirt and soap. 

        Discouraged that even the water tasted like crap, she started staring at the table, having lost any appetite she might've previously had. She pondered how horribly her life had taken a nose-dive whilst ignoring the chatter and weird noises of the other prisoners. She refused to observe any of them, worried that if she made eye contact it could trigger a situation she did not desire. 

        She then noticed a girl's hand slowly inching towards her pudding in her peripheral vision and grabbed the girl's wrist instinctively. Suddenly worried that the girl could be a psychotic killer, Beatrix let go of the tan arm and looked up to see a smiling woman, older than her by probably a decade. She had bright blue eyes and curly shoulder-length golden blonde hair.       

        "Woops, sorry," the woman smiled pleasantly, although her eyes were a little too wide for Beatrix's liking.

        "Do you always try to steal people's food so early after they wake up?" Beatrix snarked, annoyed that she had almost lost the only seemingly edible thing on her tray. 

        "Actually, yes. However, they're usually a little too drugged up to notice. But you aren't," she remarked, raising a thin eyebrow and plopping down on the seat in front of her. "You're new."

        "Nice observation, miss A-157," Beatrix stated, unable to control her sarcasm in her unpleasant situation. She was just too mad at the world to worry about manners. Besides, this woman was locked here for a reason. She could be a complete nutter. 

        "I'm Barbara," she smiled coyly. "What's your name, missy?"

        "Beatrix, with an 'X'."

        "Weird name. I like it. It suits an insane convicted felon. Why are you here anyway?"

        "They say I killed my mother," she replied bitterly, her heart hit by a pang at the reminder. 

        "'Say'? You don't think so?" she raised an intrigued eyebrow. 

        "I know I didn't do it. I'm not insane. I remember everything I was doing that night. I was supposed to be sent to a normal prison, but then I sort of pissed off the detective on my case and he sent me here as revenge," she explained, growing angry at the memory of those events. 

        "Really? Either you're demented, or you're telling the truth," she whispered, examining the girl up and down, settling on her eyes and staring into them for longer than socially acceptable. "You're actually sane?" she decided, shocked by this.

        "Yes. And I'm stuck in this madhouse for a crime I certainly did not commit, the day after my mother was murdered, so I'm sorry if I'm not in the greatest of moods," she ranted, needing to let all that frustration out. 

        "No, it's okay. Understandable, really," Barbara frowned. She set her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her clenched hands. "I have crucial advice for you- life-saving, actually. Because, trust me, as a sane one, you won't last more than three days in here."

        "I'm listening," Beatrix's head tilted slightly, disgruntled by her life expectancy.

        "I don't give advice for free, girly."

        "As you most obviously know, I don't have any money on me, Barbara."

        "I don't want money. I want your pudding," she smiled at the prospect of eating the food.

        "You're really obsessed with those things, huh? Do they really taste that good?"

        "Compared to everything else? Yes."

        "Take it, then," the newest inmate held out her pudding, and was about to lend the woman her spork, but Barbara was already digging into the vanilla dessert with her index finger.

        "So- first of all. Don't tell anyone else what you just told me. About you not actually killing your mom, and the whole 'I'm not crazy' thing. It'll get you killed. I'll keep it a secret, don't worry. Girls with more than 65% sanity need to stick together."

        "Then... what am I supposed to do? Act crazy and run around saying I killed her?"

        "No, no. Only speak of it if someone asks you directly. Don't give any truths either. Keep it confusing. And you don't even have to run around with your underwear on your head to pass as crazy here. Just threaten really gross stuff, and show no emotion, and you'll pass off as a psychopath. There are a lot of those here, so, you'll fit right in," Barbara grinned, licking pudding off her finger. 

        "Right. Be a psycho killer. Got it. Thank you," Beatrix nodded, grateful for the advice, but uncertain if it would work without trying it out first. It's not like she knew anything about asylum safety 101. 

        "Oh, and I'll even throw in another piece of advice for free. You're too cute. I don't want you to get killed in your first week," the blonde decided, booping Beatrix's nose with her saliva-wet finger. "There is a certain group of inmates that you should definitely stay wary of. The worst psychos here during this time of year. You see that table over there?"

        She pointed behind her at a table where five men were sitting. Beatrix nodded.

        "Those are the ones you have to be really wary of. Well, everyone else, too. But, these guys actually have a leader, and IQs above 72. You should watch out for three of them in particular," she whispered, ticking them off her fingers. "The fat one- he's Greenwood. A cannibal who loves eating girls that look a lot like you. Then, there's Richard Sionis. He's a millionaire, and whatever he wants around here, he gets. And finally, the redhead. Jerome Valeska. He doesn't seem that dangerous at first glance, but trust me, he's psycho. Probably more than anyone in here."

        Beatrix examined the men at the table. Two others hadn't been mentioned: a small ratty guy with patchy facial hair, twitching; and a huge bald guy staring at the wall, mouth gaping. As she watched them, the redhead felt the stare and slowly turned to catch her gaze. Compared to everyone here, he was pretty handsome, not that that meant much at all. His bright orange hair was swept back, with one piece falling onto his forehead. His skin was practically as pasty as hers was, except with a lot more rusty freckles. His eye color seemed light, maybe blue, or green, it was hard to tell from this far away. Yet, they had a very dark look in them. The most disconcerting thing, however, was that his mouth formed into a giant happy smile, showing off his perfect white teeth. Yet, his eyes stayed dark and calculating. A shiver ran down her spine and she quickly turned back to Barbara who was simply focused on finishing the pudding. 

        "Thanks, Barbara. I really appreciate your advice," Beatrix said, trying to hide how shaky she had become. 

        "It's no trouble at all," she said, dropping the empty plastic cup back into the tray. 

        "Hey- I didn't ask you... why are you in here?" She tucked her dark hair behind her ear, suddenly very intrigued. Despite a few strange mannerisms, and perhaps a concerning obsession with pudding, Barbara seemed awfully sane, and smart. Had she been set up as well?

        "Oh, I killed both my parents," she smiled nonchalantly, getting to her feet. "Purposefully. Intentionally. Honestly."

        Beatrix's mouth fell slightly open at the casual revelation. She watched Barbara saunter off to the very table she had warned her about, and watched her plop onto Sionis' lap. The blonde winked at her, clearly enjoying the surprise in her expression. The redheaded boy turned back quickly when he noticed Barbara's antics. He stared at Beatrix with an amused smirk, still with his dark eyes, making him seem absolutely deranged.


	2. Pinata Party

Dinner time was the only moment another inmate came to talk to Beatrix. She had spent the day alone, keeping herself isolated. Even during lunch and recreation time, no one had bothered her. Perhaps they hadn't noticed her yet, perhaps they were giving her some time to adjust. Whatever the reason was, she was grateful, as she needed time to truly absorb the new routine. A guard had informed her that she would be receiving more information about her case within the week, and she did not argue.

The dark-haired girl had been attempting to swallow the rubbery steak on her Styrofoam dinner plate with difficulty when a tall, thin man walked up to her with absolutely no expression on his face, whatsoever. He had brown hair and giant under-eye bags. He slowly lowered himself into the chair beside her, his beady eyes not leaving her face for one second. 

Remembering Barbara's advice, she turned to stare him down, as emotionless as he was. She was a pretty decent actress, as working in customer service had definitely forced her to practice. Of course, she’d never had to act like a deranged psychopath before, but there was a first for everything. And perhaps Barbara was in cahoots with the worst gang in Arkham, but that didn't necessarily mean her advice had no value. 

"What do you want?" Beatrix demanded, keeping her voice cool and steady.

"What are you in here for? Everyone's been asking everyone all day- yet, no one knows," he told her, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"Matricide," she said simply. The impersonal word was a lot easier to use emotionlessly than 'I killed my mom'.

"Oh. Interesting. How'd you do it, princess? And why? She didn't approve of your new boyfriend?" His previously blank face broke into a big creepy smile, showing off yellow and black teeth.

"You know why I'm really glad we have sporks here? They have little dents to stab things with, plus, you can use them to scoop stuff. It's really the best of both worlds," Beatrix smiled darkly, replicating what she had seen people do around here all day. 

"You have the attention span of a goldfish- I don't care about how you like eating your food here. How did you kill your mother?"

"Want me to show you?" Beatrix frowned, raising her spork, "See, I just stabbed the dents into her eye, and I pushed towards the side to spoon the spork inside the socket. And then I pulled. Would you like to know how long it took for her to choke to death on her own eyeball?"

The man's eyes widened as he realized the spork talk was not a random lack of attention. He kept his gaze locked on the utensil, suddenly nervous about having it pointed at him. 

"Oh, and you asked why..." Beatrix continued, seeing that her tactic was working, "She kept nagging me. Like you are doing right now, actually. Funny, how that happens..."

"Okay, I'll let everyone know. Thank you. Enjoy your meal," he smiled nervously, and she noticed he was missing quite a few front teeth as well. The man lifted his butt off the bench and briskly walked off. Satisfied, Beatrix was about to taste the mash potatoes when she felt watched. She looked up at the other side of the room, at the dangerous table. Barbara was smiling at her, and threw her a proud thumbs-up. The rest of the gang watched her without much interest, except for Jerome. He definitely looked intrigued by the exchange, and that fact confirmed a relieving fact to her: Barbara had not told them about how she had been set up, nor that she hadn't killed her mother. Yet, at least.

 

The next morning went by smoothly since Beatrix had gotten the hang of how things worked around the place. As long as she didn't argue, as long as she kept to herself, everything would go well. And if she managed to remain sane in this asylum, her eventual trial could potentially save her. If the jury members saw how not crazy she was, they'd probably end up believing that she hadn't killed her own mother. She would be free... free to do what, exactly? It's not like she had anyone else. It's not like she had any definitive life plan except make money and move away with her mother. That was now obviously off the table.

During recreation time, Beatrix sat on a wooden chair, watching the TV that was hanging on the wall. It was on mute and it showed the boring news, but she watched nevertheless. She wanted to stay updated on the world outside this cage as best she could. It was where she belonged, after all. 

She watched a news reporter talk about rain, when suddenly, the screen she'd been looking at became covered by a relatively large body, and an even larger head. Although that might've only been the hair giving that impression. It was Greenwood, with his scraggly, mousey nest of brown hair. The cannibal smiled down at her. She was sort of used to being stared at hungrily, lust-wise, as men often ogled her as she waited tables. However, this type of hunger was much more bone-chilling. He looked like he was already planning all the different recipes he could follow with each edible part of her body.

"You're blocking the TV," Beatrix stated, using the same monotone voice as the day before.

"Yes," Greenwood grinned, looking like a very ugly version of the Cheshire cat. 

"Move."

"No. I like getting acquainted to new meat." 

He took a step closer. Beatrix felt her heart start beating a little faster, realizing that this man would be harder to scare than others. She calmly glanced at the table he had come from to see that no one was paying attention except Jerome. He was watching the interaction with curiosity, and jumped to his feet when he met Beatrix's gaze. Realizing he was slowly making his way over to them, she figured it was best she tried to rid herself of the madman as quickly as possible. 

"Too late. Barbara beat you to it, cannibal," she drawled coolly, resisting the nervous habit of chewing her bottom lip. 

"She's so annoying, that one. Always stealing my snacks, like my pudding every time I'm not looking." Greenwood let out a frustrated sigh, yet, he did not make any indication that he was going to leave her alone. And, the ginger was now only a few feet away. 

"Well, if you don't leave me alone, I might have to steal something a little more important to you than food. Like an eye. Or a vital organ," she threatened with a ghost of a smile, putting nearly all of her energy on looking calm. "Wait, is an eye an organ?"

"Yes, it is, actually." Jerome had joined them, holding his hands behind his back with a wide grin and a carefree attitude. "Didn't you have a biology class about them?"

"Yes, I was a little too focused on dissecting the thing to listen to the boring teacher," Beatrix answered immediately, feeling slightly less nervous since he was giving off much less of a dark vibe than the last few times she'd seen him. Maybe the lighting in the cafeteria made creepy shadows appear on his face that weren't usually there. 

Jerome seemed to like that response as his smile grew wider and a little cackle came out of him. Greenwood looked quite irritated about the boy showing up, and was about to say something when Richard Sionis called out his name. The cannibal glanced over at the millionaire, who, despite not actually looking at Greenwood, raised his hand and motioned for him to go see him at the table. 

"Ugh, what does he want?" The wide and short man trudged off towards their usual table without forgetting to wink disgustingly at the girl first. 

As the cannibal got further away, Beatrix felt her tense shoulders loosen up, relieved that she didn't have to find a way to scare the guy. She turned her attention to the redhead who was still standing three feet in front of her, watching her curiously. 

"Ah, finally, the nutter's gone!" Jerome clapped happily twice. "I was afraid he wouldn't leave without cutting a piece of your cheek to eat for dinner later... you handled him pretty well. Didn't even look scared. It's impressive."

"Thank you. Your opinion of me is, as you know, of the utmost importance," she sassed with a sarcastic tight-lipped smile. 

Jerome snickered, "Oh, I like ya. We're gonna be as thick as thieves in a few days, you'll see. We have a bunch of stuff in common."

Beatrix stopped herself from tensing as he abruptly grabbed an empty wooden chair nearby and dragged it in front of her. He sat down with the back of the chair between his legs and his elbows resting on it, his head in his hands. His face was two feet away from hers. Too close for comfort, as she was capable of counting his freckles if she wanted to. He observed every half-inch of her face, reading every little fleeting emotion. 

"Do we?" She raised an eyebrow, hoping her voice didn't sound as stressed as she thought it did. 

"Oh, yes. I heard you killed your own mother, Beatrix with an 'x'," he told her nonchalantly, but the dark look in his eye that she had seen a few times before was back, and she realized it definitely was not a trick of the light. She suddenly wasn't as comfortable with his presence as when he'd first arrived. Also, the way he said her name with such emphasis made her skin crawl. "I killed mine, too. It's quite freeing, isn't it?"

"Yeah. And I'd like to go back to watching the news, if you don't mind, Jerome," she played off her uneasiness with disinterest. 

"Soon, soon," he assured her, the darkness in his eyes evaporating, replaced with sudden excitement. "We're having a party tonight! Wanna come? Pardon me for not having the time to make a formal written invitation, it was quite recently planned out."

"A party? In a mental hospital?" she frowned slightly. 

"Of course! It's not, like, a real party with booze, or music, but it'll be fun. Sionis paid off the guards to get us a big empty room for the gang," he explained, running a pale hand through his bright hair. "Eat dinner at our table, and then we'll head off to the party room when it's time."

"Who said I wanted to go?"

"Oh, come on," he whined. "You can't spend the rest of your incarcerated life alone- you need friends. You'll get to know all of us."

"I already have a friend. Barbara."

"She'll be there, too," Jerome smirked, satisfied that she'd have no rebuttal. He jumped to his feet and kicked his chair away from in front of her. "So, see you at dinner. I'll leave you to your favorite piece of entertainment- muted moving pictures."

Jerome skipped off and Beatrix let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding. She had tried to heed Barbara's advice, but the crazies hadn't given her much choice. Perhaps she could handle their insanity, and use them as protection against the other inmates, like Barbara was obviously doing. She'd dealt with Greenwood and Jerome relatively well, so who was to say this tactic couldn't work for her, too?

 

Later that day, Beatrix was once again marching in a line of inmates, led by the guards, to the cafeteria for dinner. She'd had her first shower time since she'd arrived in Arkham and her hair was still slightly damp from the terrifyingly cold water. Her hands also felt damp, but that was just clamminess from how anxious she was. Dinner with the danger table. Just the thought of being surrounded by the psychos made her want to skip dinner altogether. Yet, she had no choice, as with most things in her life, recently. 

After getting her tray of barely edible food, she slowly made her way to the farthest table to the right, in the corner. The bad table. Everyone was already seated. Sionis and Barbara closely sat next to each other at the far right end. The bald guy was in front of Barbara, and the scraggly one faced Sionis. Greenwood was next to the millionaire, and faced Jerome. There were two empty spots: one next to the cannibal, and one next to the redhead. 

"Trixie! Glad you could join us," Jerome jumped to his feet, surprising the girl with the nickname. He pointed at the table. "Where'd you wanna sit?"

Greenwood leered at her, while the thin, nervous man waved slightly. Without much hesitation, Beatrix quickly plopped down next to the one she didn't know the name of, much to the cannibal's disappointment. Jerome sat in the empty seat next to her, patting her back in what seemed like an encouraging gesture. Barbara noticed the girl join them and pursed her lips, almost disapprovingly. 

"So, let's make some introductions, hm?" he suggested, an excited grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he stared down at her with bright eyes. He pointed at the end of the table. "You know Barbara, obviously. And that handsome man is Richard Sionis. When he tells a joke, everyone laughs, if you know what I mean."

Jerome gave Beatrix a meaningful look, like he was warning her not to cross the guy as he was the one who pulled all the strings. 

"They are sickeningly cute, aren't they?" Greenwood muttered bitterly, eyeing them as Barbara fed the millionaire a mushy fry, ignoring the others' attention. 

Jerome acted like the cannibal hadn't spoken and pointed at the big, bald man. "Now, baldy over there, that's Aaron. He killed his family with his bare hands, so, uh, I suggest not criticizing him, if you value your pretty throat staying intact. The charming fellow to your right is Dobkins. Sometimes he sees and hears things that aren't there, but who doesn't, am I right?"

"Hi. Nice to m-meet you. You have pretty temples," Dobkins stuttered out, pointing at the side of her head shyly.

"Um, thanks," she said, slightly confused by the odd comment, but she'd heard stranger things in her few days in the asylum. 

"I have to agree with the guy, your temples aren't ugly," Jerome smirked, jokingly teasing the interaction before getting back to business. "And, finally, Greenwood. You two have already met today so no need to go into details. Everyone- this is Beatrix and she shall be joining us for our pinata party later this evening."

At the announcement, Sionis looked away from Barbara for the first time to glance at Jerome and they exchanged a knowing look. He then focused his attention back on the blonde, who'd been staring at Beatrix with what seemed like worry. 

The group ate and chatted. Mostly, Jerome did the talking. Dobkins asked Beatrix strange unrelated questions, like if she had ever owned a hamster, followed by if she liked mowing the grass during winter. Greenwood tried to make conversation a few times, but Jerome would interrupt him, or redirect the conversation, constantly. Beatrix noticed these two had a strange rivalry, but she did not mind the redhead steering Greenwood away from telling her cannibalistic creepy comments. 

When they had all eaten whatever they could muster the courage to try on their plates, it was time to go to the famed 'party room'. A guard led them to a door behind the cafeteria in an area that seemed to be mostly used by staff, and not convicts. The room they entered had a high ceiling, and it was long and rectangular. It resembled those old infirmaries where beds would line the walls as nurses took care of hundreds of patients at once during epidemics. Beatrix's theory about the room's old purpose was solidified when she noticed old bed frames stacked in a corner. 

"Friends! This may seem shabby, but I assure you all that the entertainment I have planned for tonight will be well worth the hype." Jerome spread his arms dramatically as the group of inmates filed in. "I had a bunch of stuff planned originally- clowns, an acrobatic show, cotton candy- but, unfortunately, they're a little hard to come by in Arkham. Do not worry, though, I've something you all will appreciate."

Jerome marched over to a closet and pulled something out, or rather, someone. A young man, couldn't be above his late twenties, was tied up with grey tape, his hands behind his back and his feet stuck together. He couldn't make many sounds as his mouth was taped shut as well. His blue eyes were wide with terror as he observed the small crowd of crazies in front of him. 

"Now, this pathetic little fellow is a nurse here at Arkham," Jerome told his audience of six people, patting the man's head quite aggressively. "Last week, he kept insisting I take the pills. You know, the ones that make you all loopy and brain-dead like the majority of our home's inhabitants. Well, today, I want to show him just how ridiculous muffling my creativity and artistic genius would be."

Panicked whimpers erupted from the nurse and he tried to get away from Jerome. However, as all he could do was hop, he did not get very far. The maniacal redhead grabbed the man by the elbow and tugged him backwards, making him fall to the ground. Beatrix watched all of this happen with an indifferent expression, but her insides were squirming with anxiety, repulsion, and pity. Seeing the panic in the poor man's eyes was almost too much for her to bear, and if she wasn't surrounded by psychotic killers, she would've freed him immediately. 

"Aaron, I need your help with something," Jerome asserted, beckoning the buff man over.

While the two prepared the show, Barbara sauntered up to Beatrix, who still hadn't moved at all. 

"Newbie, what did I warn you about on your first day?" the blonde smiled pleasantly, but there was a confrontational spark in her blue eyes.

"This." Beatrix bit her lip, unsure how to react to this situation.

"Yes. So, why are you here?"

"I- Jerome didn't really give me much of a choice. I just want to get this evening over with, and then I'll go back to isolating myself," she whispered, glad the others were chatting and joking amongst themselves so she could speak to Barbara a little more freely.

"That's not going to be possible. If Jerome's zeroed in on you... he's persistent."

"What, you think he wants me... like that?" Beatrix frowned, a little disturbed, though she thought it could be much worse- it could be someone else than Jerome. At least he seemed to be around her age, and he wasn't physically revolting like most other inmates. Not that she'd ever want to get close with the insane lunatic.

"No, you misunderstand me. He likes mind games, and I'm worried that-" Barbara started explaining, but Richard appeared next to her, wrapping an arm around the blonde's thin shoulders. 

"What are you two girlies discussing, huh?" he asked pleasantly. 

"I'm just worried the guards will decide they don't support this little gathering anymore, barge in, and tranquilize us," Beatrix lied smoothly and calmly, making the other girl raise an impressed eyebrow at her acting skills and quick thinking. 

"Please, don't worry about those doofuses. They'll support anything- as long as it has a price," Sionis reassured her, subtly bragging about his power over the institution. 

Beatrix smiled slightly and was about to make casual conversation when she heard a loud, ecstatic "Ta-Da!"

Jerome was grinning maliciously at his and Aaron's handiwork: the pair had managed to tie the nurse up onto one of the old curtain poles that was still hanging from the ceiling. These strong metal bars used to be for creating privacy between the many sick patients, but now they had a man tied to it with a thick rope, his feet dangling quite a few inches off the ground. 

"Everyone, may I please have your attention?" Jerome called out for the group to quiet down, grabbing a wooden baseball bat from the closet as Aaron walked back to his spot next to Dobkins. The young ginger poked the nurse's stomach with the bat, making him swing a little. "Welcome to the first annual Arkham Pinata Soiree!"

Everyone clapped, some a little more enthusiastically than others. Dobkins nearly fell over with eagerness.

"Now, the rules are simple-" Jerome continued with a cackle, "you take this bat, and you swing real hard. And then, if you're lucky, candy will fall out! First one to the treats gets to... I actually haven't thought of the reward yet. Wait a minute... hold on... Got it! Winner gets to choose what'll happen at our next special gathering. So- who wants to go first?"

His dark eyes darted between every inmate present, taking note of who seemed excited to participate, and who seemed bored. His gaze locked on Beatrix, who was staring at the human pinata with a strangely disinterested frown.

"Beatrix... as the newbie, you should commence this celebration. Get you properly initiated into Arkham, blah blah blah. Step right up to the stage! Look, I know there's no actual stage, just imagine the floor's a little higher over here than the rest of the room, okay?" Jerome snickered as he held out the bat towards the girl, eagerly waiting for her to grab it. 

Beatrix's heart dropped to her stomach with dread. Still, she knew she had no choice but to join the crazy man on the imaginary stage. She did all she could to hide her reluctance, using the acting skills she’d practiced when she had to walk up to angry customers and hide how she really did not want to deal with their bullshit. Everyone's eyes were on her, which meant she had to make sure her acting was as flawless as she could make it. 

"Come on, don't be shy, dollface," he urged her.

Beatrix grabbed the handle of the bat firmly, desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the whimpering man hanging from the rope tied around his abdomen and thighs. 

"Now, just get in position, pose like they do in baseball games, and... swing." Jerome's voice had gotten a lot deeper as his sadistic thirst for blood rose inside of him. 

Resolved to get this over with as soon as possible, Beatrix positioned herself near the struggling pinata and swung quickly, aiming for the calves. The nurse groaned in pain. Dobkins clapped happily. Aaron grunted out a laugh. The rest were silent. 

"Boring!" Jerome complained, frowning at the girl. He stalked over to the hanging man and lifted the leg of the pants, showing off his barely hairy and undamaged leg. "Look! There isn't even a bruise! Plus, you get a 2 outta 10 for that pose. Absolutely uninspired. Now, I have faith in you- let's start off this festival right. Try again. Hit harder this time."

Beatrix took a deep breath, trying to steady her shaking hands, still avoiding looking at the panicked blue eyes of the asylum-made pinata. She hit the nurse's thigh hard, much harder than she had the calf. Guilt ran through her body, leaving her feeling disgusted with herself and her selfish survival instinct. The nurse screamed out in pain, this time, followed by some whimpering. The psychos cheered while Barbara simply smiled, satisfied that the newbie was determined to keep the act up. 

However, one person was still unhappy. Jerome sighed loudly. "This was a little bit better... but, still boring. I thought you were fearless. A pioneer in the art of violence. Your spork threats were awesome sauce! What's up with you?"

"It's been a long few days. I'm just tired," Beatrix defended herself, starting to get annoyed at how demanding the ginger was of her. 

"Hm... don't care," he shrugged and approached her, getting right in her face, his evil eyes piercing hers like he was examining the contents of her soul. "I know you have it in you. There's so much anger there. Just get angry. Perhaps you work better when you're riled up. Go on, get pissed."

"I've nothing to be pissed about right now," Beatrix responded coolly, as calm and unbothered as she could be with his face two inches away from hers.

"Of course you do!" Jerome exclaimed, walking back a little. He motioned to the room. "You're stuck in here, aren't ya? You killed your mom, desperately needing to be free from her grasp. And you were free, until those bastard policemen locked you in here. Just 'cause you got rid of that bitch. Oh... remember all the bad things she did to you."

All Beatrix could think about was her mother's cold blank eyes and the bullet in her forehead. Jerome was right- she did have a lot of anger, just not regarding the reasons he mentioned.

"She must've been horrible to make you snap. Mine was. I bet she was a terrible cook. A hypocrite. A lying whore. Probably beat you a few times, at least," Jerome taunted, no hint of a smile on his face as he relived his own mother's horribleness.

However, the memories flashing through Beatrix's mind were a lot different from his: she remembered how her mother would always cook up some chicken soup when she was sick; she recalled all the times they'd laughed hysterically over morning coffee as they told each other their dreams of the night before. She thought of how she'd never get to see that warm smile again. She saw that blond policeman's smug face while he'd taunted her. All the red-hot rage boiled up in her again, just like in the interrogation room. 

And before any sense made its way back to her brain, her hands gripped the bat tightly and she swung at the pinata's middle with all the strength she could muster. 

This time, the man didn't scream. It was more of a choked gurgle, followed by loud wails. The small audience burst into applause with lots of happy cheers and giggles. 

Jerome stood frozen for a second, surprised that his taunting had worked so efficiently. A manic grin spread on his face and he started laughing hysterically, holding his middle like he had cramps. 

"Oh, now that must have broken a rib or two!" he guffawed, having difficulty speaking through all his cackles. "Good job, newbie! That was wonderful!"

Beatrix glanced up at the nurse, breathing heavily. There was no blood on him, but that didn't mean much. His eyes were clenched shut as agony shot through his middle. She had heard a loud crack. There was no doubt that she had broken something. Horrified, and disgusted, she let the bat fall the floor at her feet and hurried out of the room, not daring to look back at any of them. 

She slammed the door behind her, Jerome's insane hoots of laughter echoing in her mind. A hand abruptly stopped her and she looked up to see one of the guards blocking her way into the A-wing, to the corridor that led to her cell. 

"Inmate 166, where the hell you think you're goin'?" the guard demanded. 

"I was just in Valeska's torture-porn party room, you know, the one Sionis paid you to stay quiet about? So unless you want to anger the guy, you might want to let me pass," she growled out. Not that Sionis would care about what happened to her, she wasn't actually a member of their little gang. But, she figured the simple fact that she knew about the party room and the hush money would grant her some advantage. 

"Oh, I see. Go to your cell." the guard's tone was less harsh as he became nervous of what would happen to him if he inconvenienced the girl. She nodded, relieved that her tactic worked, and hurried to her small room. 

She immediately hopped onto her bed, putting her head in her hands. The events of the evening replayed in her mind on loop. The tortured whines and screams, the evil laughs, the memory of her poor mother's untimely fate... She had been so troubled that she had been set up and sent to the madhouse that she had practically forgotten she was grieving. And the sadness took over the disgust of her recent actions.

She had never felt this helpless before. After seeing the true ugliness of the insanity in this place, the thought of being stuck here for years on end actually terrified her. She doubted she'd be capable of staying sane if she was stuck here for a few months awaiting trial, much less a whole decade.

She was taken out of her self-pity session when the door to her cell barged open a good half hour later. She looked up, startled, expecting to see a bunch of guards ready to make her pay for going to the soiree. However, that was not that case.

"Thanks, Georgie," Jerome smirked at the guard who had just unlocked Beatrix's cell for him. She stared silently at the boy as he sauntered into her room like it was his and closed the door behind him. Beatrix could feel her heart beat sporadically with apprehension. He was probably the last person she desired to see right then, for obvious reasons. Also, being locked inside a small room with a killer whose every word was listened to by the guards did not lessen her nervous feelings. 

Jerome walked towards the bed, a malicious grin plastered on his face, his eyes darker than ever. He sat on the edge of it comfortably, unbothered by how the girl scooted away, her green eyes wide with worry. She was trying desperately to hide her fear since she figured that was what he wanted to see in her. 

"Ah, you missed so much fun stuff, Bee," Jerome chuckled. She tensed slightly at the nickname- that's what her mother used to call her. Due to the proximity, she noticed a few red spots on his face amongst the freckles- blood splatter. She could only imagine what kind of 'fun stuff' he was referring to. Since she didn't answer, he continued, "Your last hit really encouraged the gang to get their hands dirty. Why'd you have to leave so early?"

Beatrix observed him, trying to figure him out. The way he had uttered the question led her to believe he knew exactly why she'd run off and was only taunting her to get her to admit it. Which was not good. He really was toying with her, like Barbara had warned. 

"What do you want? If it's just to annoy me- leave," she demanded with a brave face, trying not to give him any satisfaction. "Like I told you earlier, I'm tired."

"I won't be staying long. I just wanted to let you know that the party was a test," Jerome snickered lightheartedly. A fraction of a second later, however, his face lost all humor, and he was practically glaring at her. "A test which you failed."

"Are you going to elaborate, ginger?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, the unwavering scowl making her uneasy. 

"See, ever since you showed up here, I've been observing you. You're a good actress. Good enough to fool a lot of people. But not me," he growled out. 

"Don't know what you're talking about."

Her denial of his vague accusation clearly amused him as his face broke into a smile once more.

"True psychopaths revel in the praise of their achievements. And I’d almost bought your act, until you ignored the opportunity to describe your mommy's murder in gory detail. That meant- either you weren't a psycho, or you didn't kill your mom. The test made me realize that it's both. You were way too empathetic. And nervous. You chew your bottom lip when you're nervous, did you know?" he said, low chuckles coming out of him as he watched her realize she was biting her lip right that moment, making her stop. 

She stayed silent, wondering where he was going with this. Was he going to drag her to the party room and use her as the new pinata? The previous one had obviously expired his usefulness. 

"So, my question is- what's an innocent little girl like you doing in a nice place like this?" he cocked a firey eyebrow. 

"Gotham's pretty corrupted. And good, sane people get caught up in the mess," she answered simply, still trying to keep emotions out of it. She knew he'd use any vulnerability against her. 

"Sane, huh? I have issues with that word." Jerome brought his legs up from dangling off the edge of the bed and crossed them, not caring that his dirty shoes were on the sheets.

"And I have issues being the only person with all their marbles in a madhouse," she smiled sarcastically, trying to ignore the fresh blood getting onto her bed. 

Jerome giggled to himself, shaking his head like she'd said the funniest joke on the planet. 

"You- ha! You have such a sense of grandeur saying that sentence. You know, crazy people think they're sane- so what does that say about you?" he chortled out. Before she could open her mouth, he continued, "You know what? Sure. Maybe you did walk in here 'sane'. But, trust me, sweetheart, you ain't coming back out sane."

His confidence about the statement made a chill run down her spine. It's what she'd been stressing about since she'd set foot inside the building. She decided she really did not want him to be in her room anymore, tired of his mind games. She jumped up from her bed, glaring down at him from the middle of her room. 

"Get out. Please, just leave me alone," she asked him sharply, trying hard to avoid sounding like she was begging. 

Jerome pouted exaggeratedly. "Oh, but I love talking to ya! Why end the fun now?"

"I want to sleep," she stated.

She watched him slowly clambering up from his seat on her uncomfortable mattress, surprised that he seemed to actually be listening. Unable to stop the curiosity growing in her, she wondered, "Why are you so interested in poor little old me?"

"Ah, it's simple, really. Pure crazies can barely hold a decent conversation for more than a few sentences. They have no depth. They're predictable. They get boring quickly. You, on the other hand, are not those things." He had gotten closer and closer while he spoke, and he stopped a foot in front of her, beaming, "People who think they're sane are much more amusing... and wrong."

"I'm not crazy," she spat out in a whisper, feeling the red-hot anger bubbling beneath the surface.

"Hm... you should've seen your face when you hit the pinata... it didn't scream levelheadedness to me, sweet-cheeks," he smirked and flicked her cheek painfully.

She barely flinched at the sting, though. He looked her up and down slowly, eyes slightly too wide and showing how unhinged he truly was. Unlike most men, however, lust didn’t cloud his gaze. He seemed more calculating, like he was sizing her up, or trying to figure out exactly how to make her break. He then turned away from her and knocked on the door twice. The guard, who had been waiting outside, opened the door to let him out. 

Jerome left without glancing back at her. Once the door closed and she saw he was far away, she let out a shaky breath. He was unfortunately intrigued by her, and she couldn't do anything about it. Therefore, she went to sleep, ready for a night filled with nightmares of maniacal laughs, baseball bats, and a certain ginger psychopath.


	3. Navy Blue Tray

Beatrix barely slept that night- her nightmares too horrible for her to endure. Near two in the morning, she'd dreamt that she had smashed the window of her own apartment, snuck into the living room, and shot her mother in the forehead. It was when she woke up sweating and crying that she decided sleep was simply not worth it. 

For hours, she paced her room, mulling things over in her head. In times of distress, she'd usually draw, or paint, or read, or even write. But she had nothing to do these things with in her cell. Instead, her dream kept replaying in her mind, making her question if she actually was crazy and delusional. Jerome's words repeated on loop, only making her question her sanity even more. 

Part of her couldn't wait for nine o'clock to come around, as she'd at least be let out of this torturous cube and brought to the distracting cafeteria. The other part of her didn't want nine o'clock to ever arrive, too scared of seeing Jerome. She had a feeling he would not allow her any alone time.

However, much to her surprise, her door opened at 7:30, revealing one of the more quiet guards. He was usually posted at the offices, away from the patients since he wasn't intimidating enough to deal with crazies for hours on end. 

"Miss Nelson? Good thing you're already up- you have a visitor," the thin man told her, trying to hide how wary he was of her. Which was unnecessary, of course. 

"You're mistaken," she replied instantly. It made no sense. She had no family left. No lawyer was working on her case. It definitely couldn't be that blond asshole, detective Weller. 

"I assure you I'm not. He very clearly asked for you," the guard insisted. "Now, please turn around so I may handcuff you. It's only for the duration of the visit."

Frowning, Beatrix turned her back to him, allowing herself to be cuffed. She felt the cold metal objects around her wrists, and the man did not close them too tightly, which she was grateful for. She let herself be walked out of the A-wing, past the empty recreation room, and towards the front of the asylum where the offices were, and the visitation rooms.

They stopped in front of a white door labelled 'Private Visitation'. 

"Since this is your first visitor, I have to let you know of the rules. Firstly, do not touch or hurt the visitor. Also, do not scream or become overly agitated. Lastly, no bodily fluids." The man seemed amused by the disgust in her expression, knowing how absurd the last rule sounded, yet also knowing it existed for many valid reasons. "A violation of any of these rules will cut the visitation short, and will ban you from receiving visitors for the next three months. Understood?"

"Got it," she nodded, not worried about breaking any of them. 

"Good," he said and opened the door, letting her walk in before he did. 

The room was small. There was a musty couch in a corner, and a metal table in the middle with two chairs. On one of the chairs was a young boy with dark hair and brown, deep-set eyes. He was sitting patiently, his bony hands folded over a beige folder – there was no pen on the table. Beatrix was only further confused by seeing the visitor's face, as she didn't exactly know who he was. He seemed familiar, though. 

"Sir, if you need anything you–" the guard started saying, preparing to leave the room, but the boy interrupted him. 

"Can you uncuff her, please? These aren't necessary," he asked with an authoritative tone. Beatrix repressed a shocked laugh, wondering how a baby like him could have such a direct tone when speaking to an adult. 

"It's standard procedure for a first visit. We don't know if she'll lash out–" 

"I assure you she won't. Please," the visitor insisted, and, much to Beatrix's surprise, the guard obliged. She rubbed her wrists once the handcuffs were off. Though they hadn't been as tight as when the police had put them on her, it still had been uncomfortable. 

"Scream if you need me," the man said before closing the door behind him. 

The room stayed silent for a good moment as the two minors sized each other up. He was observing her just as much as she was observing him, both trying to figure the other out. 

"Please, sit," the boy finally said, pointing at the chair facing him across the table. He had a small pleasant smile on his face. There was no malice in his look, which should be no surprise as he seemed ten. Yet, Beatrix was still stunned, having grown used to everyone’s weird attitudes in the asylum.

"Who are you?" She narrowed her eyes at him, annoyed at how she couldn't place the boy despite him looking so familiar. 

"Bruce Wayne," he answered, pride resonating in his voice.

She nodded, recognizing the name since his family owned Wayne Enterprises, and he was the billionaire heir of the company because his parents had been killed a few years ago. However, she hadn't seen the boy's face on TV, so why did she feel like she'd seen him before?

He continued, "I used to go to that diner you worked at often, with my butler, whenever I desperately needed to get out of the house. There never were many customers, so I had a minimal chance of being recognized. You used to work there all the time – well, whenever I went you were there. Not sure if that's because you were there often, or if it was just good timing on my part."

"Both," she said, a hint of a smile on her lips. 

She did recognize him now. He was one of the regulars, and he always came with a British middle-aged man. They left generous amounts of tip every time. It made sense, if he had billions of dollars to spare. She noticed how eloquently he spoke, and how mature he seemed, despite his voice being octaves higher than hers and looking like he'd just gotten out of first grade. 

"So you can imagine my surprise when I heard the super nice waitress at my favorite diner had killed her mother and was sent to Arkham. I had seen your mother before, when she'd come to get you after one of your shifts. You two seemed to love each other very much," Bruce elaborated, and Beatrix felt her heart throb painfully at how he described things. "The news sounded fishy to me. Something wasn't right. So, I looked into your files for the evidence, and I found nothing substantial."

"Let me stop you right there." She crossed her arms. "How did a wee ten year old get access to my files?"

"I'm going to be 15 in three months," he frowned, offended she thought he was so young.

"Tom-ae-to, to-mah-to." She rolled her eyes, waiting for a real answer.

"Look, I believe you were wrongly incarcerated due to the detective-in-charge, so please sit down and we can discuss this in more detail."

Still watching him suspiciously, she lowered herself into the metal chair facing him. The cold steel made her shiver as it touched her thighs, and she was once more reminded of how annoying her uniform dress was. 

"Detective in charge? Weller?" She raised an eyebrow, angry at the thought of the guy.

"Yes. See, the detective was temporarily promoted due to James Gordon getting into some unfortunate trouble last month. I believe Weller wanted to prove how much better he is than Gordon by closing as many cases as quickly as possible, so it'd look good in his reports. And that meant bending some procedures–"

"Like charging innocent people with murder?" she retorted bitterly, wondering if Bruce knew about her stabbing the guy with a pen. She assumed he might, seeing as there was no pen in sight. She did not feel like asking him if he knew about it, just in case he didn't. It wasn't something she was proud of. 

"Exactly. Now, I think that if I go to Gordon and tell him of what happened to you, he might be able to help. At least to re-open the case and examine the evidence further," Bruce said with a lot of conviction. But the older girl had hundreds of questions.

"Okay, that sounds nice and all, Bruce, but... why do you even care? Bad things happen all the time, and no one ever cares," she sighed, thinking of how the guards had allowed the nurse to get beaten to death, just for a bit of money.

"I know what it's like to lose the ones closest to you, to lose everything. Now that you're stuck here... I don't think you can survive this place intact," he told her of his good intentions. Yet, his words sounded way too similar to what Jerome had said the night before and anger bubbled inside of her. 

"You don't know what it's like to lose everything, Brucie. You still have your money, and your house, and your butler – I have nothing even left to lose," Beatrix snapped, bitterness about her situation overcoming her once again. She used to be an optimistic person, with dreams, and aspirations for a hopeful future... it scared her how often she got angry now. And how intensely she felt the emotion.

"Yes, you do: your sanity," Bruce argued, which made her bite her lip anxiously. He was right, of course. "So, tell me everything that happened that night before the police arrived. Hopefully, there will be details to look into, to help get you out of here."

Beatrix proceeded to recount that evening in bright detail. It wasn't difficult. Though that night seemed to be ages ago, the memories were still vivid and fresh. As she finished telling him how she had waited for the police sitting on the floor by her dead mother's legs, she realized tears were streaming down her cheeks. She hastily tried to wipe them off with her hands. 

"Hey... you can cry, you know? It's very okay for you to cry. It barely happened 5 days ago," Bruce frowned, seeing the girl panic at the water pooling in her eyes. 

She stared at him for a while, his words comforting her. "I – I guess you're right. I've just gotten used to hiding my sadness, and my emotions. The people in here... they use every vulnerability against you."

"Yes, which is why I'll do everything I can to get you out of here, far away from them," Bruce promised, confident.  
"How did you even get here alone? Aren't visitors supposed to be adults? Shouldn't you be at school?" she frowned, but then realized the answer herself before he could open his mouth. "Ah, never mind. Money talks."

"Yeah," he nodded shyly as he got to his feet. "Speaking of school, I should probably head over there... I'll come back when I have any updates."

"Wait–" she said, and his fist hovered over the door he was about to knock on, to tell the guard they were done talking. He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Thank you. For this. I'm still overwhelmed that someone's out there wanting to help me."

"Never lose hope. Even in a dark place like this," Bruce smiled softly at her, and knocked. 

She stared at the small boy, perplexed such wise, mature words were coming out of a kid. 

The guard escorted Bruce Wayne to the front door before coming back to get Beatrix, handcuffing her once again before leading her back to her cell. Bruce's words stayed with her all morning, all throughout breakfast and recreation time. She stayed isolated from the other inmates, and managed to ignore Jerome and Friends' questioning stares. She assumed they'd thought she would now be part of the gang, after last night's party, but she was done with them. She didn't need friends, nor protection – Bruce would find a way to get her out. She still had no idea how a kid could influence an entire police station, but his confidence about it made her believe it was possible all the same.

Her mood was brought down a notch after lunch since she learned she would have her first appointment with a psychiatrist after eating. The doctor was a middle-aged woman with black hair tied into a very tight bun. She asked her a bunch of questions about her mother's murder, and when Beatrix insisted she wasn't the killer, the woman only scribbled notes on her notepad. She caught a glimpse of one of the words: 'Delusional'. Beatrix realized it was useless to argue with the doctor, and simply resorted to going silent. 

The psychiatrist decided she should go to group therapy, saying that seeing other patients speak of their problems and stories could encourage her to be honest with herself and lead her to eventually do the same. 

So, an hour later, Beatrix was sitting patiently on one of the blue plastic chairs of the group therapy room. It looked like a kid's classroom. Drawings were taped to the walls, and colored blocks she assumed were meant to help patients with severe anxiety open up, since they'd be distracted by making towers... and then she realized she had no real idea of what anything was for. She wasn't exactly well-versed in her knowledge of psychology. 

Chairs were placed in a circle in the center of the room, there were about twenty of them. A few patients were already sitting, waiting with her. They all stayed quiet, staring at empty spots, or mumbling mutely to themselves. The session was supposed to start in a few minutes, and they were waiting for the therapist to arrive. 

Beatrix had been picking at her chipped black nail polish, annoyed that she couldn't reapply any, when she felt the chair next to her get bumped into hers. Both chairs were now stuck together, and the thigh of whoever was sitting on the other one was pressed tightly against hers.

"Hiya, sugar buns," Jerome breathed into her ear, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She could smell cinnamon gum on his breath, distracting her momentarily from how much that had actually startled her. Where did he get gum in Arkham?

"Therapy is supposed to be a place where people get to talk about their problems in peace. And, as you figured out yesterday, this past week has been the absolute worst week of my life. So – may I please have some peace?" Beatrix turned to look at him pleadingly, ignoring the fact that his face was mere inches away from hers. He had been reasonable last night, he had left her room, even though he could've stayed as long as he wished. Perhaps he would listen once more. 

"Oh, the pain in your eyes is magnificent – splendidly haunting," he smiled, only tightening his grip on her shoulders, bringing her an inch closer. "See, in Arkham, everyone's either drugged out of their minds, vegetables, or psychopaths. Not much pain to see, unfortunately."

"You're sadistic," she stated coldly, turning her face to face the front and distancing herself from him, well, as much as the arm around her let her. 

Jerome's eyes lit up in fake astonishment. "Oh my – have you been gossiping with my psychiatrist? He says the exact same thing!"

Beatrix only sighed, suddenly impatient for the therapist to arrive. The other patients in the room were ignoring their interaction, for better or for worse, she wasn't sure. She was surprised with herself, however, as she was a lot less nervous than the night before. Maybe it was because they weren't locked in a tiny cell at night, maybe it was due to the hope Bruce had instilled back into her. Whatever it was, she was glad, as Jerome reveled in seeing her nervous. And she didn't like making him happy. 

"You gotta loosen up, Trixie," Jerome frowned sarcastically. "Laugh a little."

"I'm stuck here for something I didn't do. How can I possibly be all smiley like you?"

"Look at the bright side – when you've hit rock bottom, there's only one way left to go. Up!" he smiled encouragingly. Beatrix couldn't ignore how strange the situation was. A psychotic patient was trying to make her feel better. How peculiar.

"Wrong. I could always dig down into the rock," she said, still not looking at him, not wanting his cinnamon breath to be right up her nose. 

"Like... six feet deep?" Jerome frowned, unsure if her sentence had been only logical retaliation or a joke.

"Exactly," she nodded, feeling a tiny smile fight its way through her stony facade.

Jerome dissolved into laughter, pretending to wipe invisible tears from his eyes with the hand that wasn't gripping her tense shoulder. He was practically leaning on her, stomping his foot at the mediocre suicide joke. 

"You're awfully touchy," Beatrix remarked, growing annoyed. Being held so closely by an actual murderer was quite disturbing, especially after having seen the blood splatter on his face and shoes only a few hours ago. 

Jerome stopped laughing abruptly. "That's for your sake.”

"How would that be for my sake?" She grimaced.

"Well... there are a lot of, uh, rapists, in Arkham. Many, many bad men who see a wee girl like you and think it's party time, if you know what I mean. But, they won't dare try to touch you if they think you're with me... they're too scared of Sionis' string-pulling. I'm just looking out for you, babe," Jerome smirked, putting sarcastic emphasis on the last word. 

He had a good point, yet, she knew Jerome did nothing out of the goodness of his heart, as there wasn't any goodness to be found there. 

"What would you get out of a fake relationship with me?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him, ignoring how close he was since she needed to see if he'd lie. For the first time, the room was well lit enough for her to see what color his irises were, and still she had difficulty figuring it out. They seemed blue, but a second later, they'd seem green. 

"Oh, you know–" he wiggled his eyebrows, smirking, before leaning towards her right ear to whisper "–not-so-fake special attention." 

She felt something wet and warm touch the shell of her ear, and realized Jerome had licked her. 

"Ew," she said, immediately rising to her feet and out of his grip. He hadn't been expecting it, so he nearly fell face first onto her now empty chair. 

"Aw – I was kidding! Jokes are kinda my thing–" he exclaimed as she walked across the circle of chairs to sit in the one completely opposite from him. Inmates filled the two chairs beside her, so he couldn't follow after her. Jerome continued talking from across the circle. "I told you yesterday – you entertain me. If a rapist gets to you, you might be a little less fun afterwards. And then I'd be stuck rotting in here bored, once again!"

She simply watched him, mulling over what he'd just said. Perhaps he was telling the truth. But she didn't want to be his personal entertainer. Besides, Bruce would be getting her out soon so Jerome should probably just get used to not having her at his disposition anymore. There was a possibility she wouldn't be in Arkham much longer. And, she could handle herself. She didn't want to have to depend on the redheaded psycho, as if she let herself be dependent, he could then manipulate her a lot more easily. 

Before Jerome could argue his point further, the therapist briskly walked into the room. He was a middle-aged man with thick-rimmed black glasses and salt-and-pepper hair. He had on casual clothes to help the patients feel more at ease with him than if he had on a lab coat like that annoying psychiatrist. 

He introduced himself as Mr. Bennett, and his voice and demeanor were very relaxed and pleasant. Jerome listened to the whole thing without commenting, only smirking here or there. At the end of the introduction, however, he yawned loudly, stretching his arms dramatically. 

"Oh – Jerome? I haven't seen you in group therapy since the first time you came." Mr. Bennett's eyebrows shot up, astounded with his presence. "I hope you're more willing to share than on that day."

"You'll find me much more open and kumbaya this time around, don't worry," Jerome said sarcastically. 

"Since you're here, why not start with you today?" Mr. Bennett smiled encouragingly, and the redhead smiled back, nodding. "So, what has been troubling you these past few days, Jerome?"

"Ah, lots of things. You know, I've led a very hectic life filled with pain and misery..." He shrugged casually like he was speaking of the weather. "But, worst of all, two days ago, Greenwood sat his fat butt on my favorite chair while I just wanted to draw my mother in peace! He's really become an annoyance here."

"Have you tried confronting him about it, with words?" the therapist asked. Beatrix was amused by the fact that Mr. Bennett knew it was necessary to precise 'with words'. She also was finding Jerome playing with him quite funny as well. But, she kept a straight-face, knowing that if he saw her smile, he would never let her forget it. 

"I did! And then he threatened to eat me. Listed the ingredients to the recipe, too. Half a garlic clove, minced; a teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce; barbecue sauce; and a nice rack of juicy Jerome ribs – oh, and don't forget the olive oil," Jerome listed from memory, counting the ingredients off on his fingers.

"Maybe you shouldn't be hanging around this Greenwood anymore, then. He doesn't seem to be a good influence if you want to better your health," Bennett frowned sympathetically. 

"Maybe you're right," Jerome nodded thoughtfully, tutting. "I have been trying to make new friends, but nobody quite likes me, or understands me. It reminds me of this girl I used to know, back at the circus."

"Tell me about her – what was her name?" 

"Alice. She was so naive, and filled with an internal value system, a moral code that she stuck to by the book. And the second she was forced to break those rules – she became so rigid, and she blamed it on everyone else. 'The world’s so mean, it's so unfair, poor little me'," Jerome imitated a girl's whiny voice, eyes locked on the therapist. "No matter what I told her, she didn't care, I wasn't like her. I couldn't understand. I tried to make her see the bright side, make her have fun again... but it only made her more mad. It really broke my little heart."

Beatrix's observed Jerome as he told his story, watched how exaggerated his expressions were, how filled with sadness his eyes seemed. She couldn't be sure if he was exaggerating and acting up to make the story easier to tell for him by dissociating, or if it was just that – a made-up story.

"She seems to have really affected you, this Alice," Bennett nodded thoughtfully, obviously glad that he seemed to be getting something of substance out of Jerome. "If you could talk to her right now, what do you wish you could tell her?"

"If I was still at the circus, I would tell her that it's a mad world out there. Absolutely unhinged. And following its rules is the craziest way to live," Jerome finished darkly, glancing at Beatrix with a poorly-hidden smirk.

"Jerome, society's what keeps things from collapsing. We must have codes of conduct in place–" the therapist started arguing calmly, mostly so the other listening patients would not take his words as advice or truth.

"Then again–" Jerome interrupted, now fully grinning at the girl he loved to torment. "I might just be remembering this Alice wrong. Perhaps my mind just made her up to fictionalize reality – I have been trying to convince Trixie of these things, lately."

Beatrix, understanding that this whole thing was a joke to trick her into listening to his point of view once more, got up abruptly, glowering at the redhead. 

"Mr. Bennett, may I please leave the session, now?" she asked, her fists balled up. 

"Of course, you are never obliged to participate in group therapy–"

"Thanks." She stalked out of the room, hearing Jerome's howls of laughter as she walked down the hall to the recreation room.

 

A few days had passed since Jerome had showed up to the group therapy session only to do what he loves to do best besides beating up people he dislikes: toying with Beatrix's brain.

She was grateful, however, that he left her alone for nearly one whole week – six days, to be exact. Sure, she'd catch him watching her from time to time, or winking at her from the other side of the room. But he didn't utter a single word to her. 

Barbara hung out with her sometimes, avoiding any touchy subject that reminded Beatrix that she was in an asylum. They spoke of anything but dead parents, beat up nurses, and sanity. The older woman only brought up Jerome once, saying, "I'm telling you, watch out around him. He might be an idiot, but he's a smart idiot." The only reason this comment about one of the tabooed subjects didn't annoy her that bad was because the contradicting oxymoron amused her. 

On the sixth day of quiet peace, Beatrix was sitting at her table, alone. She wasn't that hungry, and, even though she hated to admit it, she was starting to get bored. So much so, that she had created a house out of her dry ham sandwich. She used the bread as walls and the ham as the roof. She cut out small windows and made a door out of soggy celery sticks. She was about to attempt creating a chimney out of a bland brussels sprout when she noticed someone sit in the seat facing her. 

She looked up from her food masterpiece to see Jerome Valeska beaming at her with that annoying confidence.

"Tricky-Trix, have you thought of my proposal, yet?" he asked her with an obnoxious wink.

"How many different names are you going to call me?" she wondered, genuinely surprised by how many nicknames and pet names he had said since she'd arrived. 

"As many as my brain comes up with," he smirked, glad she had noticed his efforts to stay original. "So... my proposal?"

"Which one?" she asked as she tried to cut the brussels sprout into a rectangle using a spork. "The one where you suggest I'm insane like you, or the one where you pretend to be my boyfriend to keep rapists away?"

"Numero dos," he tried saying in a Spanish accent, which half-failed. 

"Then no. Because it's still no." 

“But why not?” he prodded, still smiling. 

“Because being stuck with you for hours on end will make me want to rip my hair out.”

Jerome's face fell. "What about numero uno?"

"Also still a big fat no." She angrily stabbed the sprout with the spork, annoyed it wasn't turning out the way she wanted it to. However, that only caused the vegetable to fly off into the air and hit an old lady's head sitting at the table behind her. She watched Jerome's face since he could see the woman's reaction to getting attacked by a flying green.

"Nah, you're good. She didn't even flinch. Like I said… loads of brain-deads in here," he reassured her. Beatrix, realizing Jerome was definitely the type to lie even if the lady was sneaking up behind her with a knife, turned around to make sure. The woman was, indeed, frozen like a statue with some drool dripping from her mouth into her plate. Jerome smirked, "You don't trust me? I'm offended. I said I'd be your best friend in here."

"I can handle things on my own. I've handled this last week splendidly. I don't need you." 

"You're awful cocky for a little girl who couldn't even swing a bat at a pinata a few days ago." He narrowed his eyes at her with annoyance. 

"You're insane. I'm not going to let you protect me from people who are insane just like you. It makes as much sense as screen doors on a submarine," she retorted, yet she could feel herself start getting shaky again under his unwavering stare. He did not like her remark, that was clear enough.

"Whatever you say," he smiled, but it did not reach his eyes – those two orbs remained dark and piercing. "Just know that when something happens to you, I'll just watch and laugh."

Beatrix's blood ran cold at his sinister threat, even though he wasn't saying he'd hurt her himself. He was simply promising he'd sadistically enjoy whatever pain might befall her. And it seemed nearly as terrifying as him swearing he'd cut her toes off. 

"Just so we're clear, it's not 'if'. It's when. This is Arkham, after all. Oh, I can't wait–" Jerome cackled with excitement. "It's gonna be thigh-slappingly, tear-jerkingly, foot-stompingly hilarious!"

He jumped to his feet and walked back to his table, snickering to himself at the prospect. Beatrix watched him leave, chewing her bottom lip nervously. She hated when he was like this with her, so dark, and sadistic, and psychopathic. When he was just making jokes, albeit dark jokes, she actually enjoyed his company, whether she liked to admit it or not. And this made her even more anxious in his presence, as she was never sure what she was going to get. It really was like picking in a deck of cards with him, or rolling a die. 

She was broodingly perfecting her food house, trying to distract herself from the recent interaction with the redhead, when she felt the bench next to her sink with someone's weight. She looked to see who it was, expecting it to be someone from the dangerous gang, like Greenwood, or Aaron, but it was a stranger. A 6 foot 3 tall man, with quite a lot of girth, a receding hairline, and a scraggly pirate's beard with braids in it. She had seen this man in the corridors, or in the rec room before, but she'd never paid much attention to him. He'd just stare at her silently like half the population of Arkham did – nothing particularly worrying. That is, until he was sat right next to her, smugly looking down at her.

"Not in the mood for conversation – what do you want?" she glared at him, reverting back to her psychopathic persona, hoping it would work like it had with a dozen other inmates. 

"That's perfect, 'cause I don't want to talk," he said. Beatrix felt a rough hand rest on her knee, gripping at the flesh and muscle just above it. She tried to jerk her leg away from his grip, but he was strong, as was to be expected. Once again, she mentally cursed whoever had decided girls were to wear dresses. 

"Let me go right now or I swear you won't have eyes to ogle me with anymore. How would you, rapist, choose your victims then, huh?" she spat, gripping the spork tightly and trying hard to hide how scared she actually was. Over half of the guards were looking their way, but not one of them seemed willing to move one inch from their comfortable spots. 

"That's cute," the man chuckled, eyeing the spork like it was a teddy bear. "Jerome told everyone about how you didn't actually kill your mother. And about how you're actually as defenseless as a plastic doll."

 

Beatrix's panicked eyes immediately found Jerome's at the mention of his name. He was watching the interaction with a very excited evil grin, anticipating what would happen next. His eyes were filled with sadistic amusement as what he had planned came to fruition. 

"You're just a baby sheep in wolf's clothing," the man continued yammering as his hand that wasn't holding her knee started slowly going up under her dress. "Oh, and how I'd love to have that clothing ripped off of you."

She tried to free herself, or get up, but there was no way her legs would move if the crazed rapist didn't want them to. She glanced once again towards the guards, who still hadn't moved one inch even though they could clearly see what was going on, and the panic in her eyes.

Horrible burning hot rage rose inside of her – all the usual anger at her unfortunate situation, but also disgust at the unwanted hand making its way to her inner thigh. Repulsion at the kind of people that were hired as guards. Exasperation that no inmate was coming to help her. And absolute hatred at Jerome who was still watching like this was comedy central. He thought she couldn't handle being in Arkham on her own, and the idea of proving her he was right was clearly making him giddy at the thought. Beatrix decided there was no way in hell that she was going to let him have the satisfaction – she was going to prove him wrong. 

And as that last thought formed in her mind, she quickly grabbed the navy tray from the table and swung it as hard as she possibly could at the disgusting man's face. The food house she had built fell to rubble on the table. The convicted rapist, who hadn't been expecting such a retaliation, fell backwards at the impact, off the bench and to the ground. Before he even had time to process what had just happened, Beatrix was already sitting on his chest and banging the tray into his face, aiming to flatten out his nose.

Red blood splattered everywhere as she kept hitting him again, and again, and again, and again. The convicted felon had passed out a dozen hits ago, but Beatrix had no intention of stopping. How dare he try to touch her in that place? How dare the guards do nothing? How dare Jerome tell everyone she was completely harmless? She figured she mustn't seem so harmless as she tried to pummel the man's face into fine powder.

Thoughtlessly, or with a stroke of genius, depending on which of her states of mind analyzed the events, she flipped the tray to its side so the narrow, thin edge faced down, and she started hitting his neck just as hard as she'd been hitting his face. It was only after three slams down that she felt hands grab her elbows and pull her off the inmate. Guards had finally decided to stop the altercation. 

"You crazy bitch- you're gonna kill him!" the guard holding her back shouted in her ear. 

Beatrix simply watched the inmate that was still lying on the ground unconscious. His face was barely recognizable due to all the blood pooling out of his nose. But most importantly, was the gash that had appeared on his thick fatty neck. She hadn't thought the tray was sharp enough to actually cut through his skin, but it had. Blood seeped through the wound, but not enough to indicate that he was going to bleed to death. She hadn't severed any vital arteries. Had she continued slamming the tray down, however, that would not be the case.

As she observed all the damage she had caused, she expected guilt to hit her, to eat her up and fill her with self-loathing. Like with the pinata nurse. Like with Detective Weller. Sure, the police man had deserved it, but she still felt bad. This time, however, she felt nothing except smug pride at how much damage she had inflicted in so little time. With a mere tray, no less.

She then realized the cafeteria was filled with sound. Loud yells from agitated schizophrenics. Frantic mutterings from semi-sane inmates. Shouts demanding order from the prison guards. But the clearest noise of them all was Jerome's ecstatic laughter. 

The guard that was still holding Beatrix by the elbows roughly pushed her through the crowd, towards the exit gate of the eating hall. She watched Jerome with smug eyes, glad to have proved him wrong about her defenselessness. Yet, his reaction confused her. He was laughing like a kid on Christmas morning who had just received the remote-controlled car he'd wanted all year. He was clapping like one does at a concert of their favorite band. He seemed to be congratulating her happily, when he should be annoyed that little Trixie did not require his protection.

And as she left the cafeteria, it all clicked. She had accidentally proved him right about something else – something entirely different. As the guard shoved her into her cell unceremoniously, promising she'd be confined alone for a long time, she understood. Filled with dread, yet still numb after the ecstatically magnificent rush of adrenaline, she sat on the edge of her bed. She could feel the wetness of the blood splatters on her face, she could see the dark red liquid on her black-and-white dress. 

Jerome hadn't done all of this to prove she couldn't defend herself, that she'd get raped and attacked without him. He had planned all of it – planted all the seeds, played all the mind games, created all that anger... just to prove that he was right. Beatrix was dangerous. Unhinged. Mentally unstable enough to try and kill a man with a piece of plastic. 

Hours of silence passed, with only one phrase repeating on loop in her mind:

"Trust me sweetheart, you ain't coming back out sane."


End file.
